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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25860082">The London Eye</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkeyye/pseuds/hawkeyye'>hawkeyye</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:07:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,134</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25860082</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkeyye/pseuds/hawkeyye</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“The London Eye is not a what, Richard. They are a who.” The words poured from his mouth like an oil spill, as if to say ‘even you should have known that by now’. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “And I believe you will find they predate London Above’s triskaidekaphobic folly by some decades.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The London Eye</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Alright, humour me: what is it </span>
  <em>
    <span>down here</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richard Mayhew, the best warrior in all of London Below and owner of an enviable collection of trolls, had accepted many things in the past few months.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had accepted that his old life was gone, for good, and that in a way he hadn’t truly been born until he had died. He had accepted that for whatever reason, people always seemed to think he wanted to buy the trolls they’d managed to find between Floating Markets and that they wouldn’t ease up until he did. He had accepted that whatever he </span>
  <em>
    <span>thought </span>
  </em>
  <span>he knew about London Below he probably only had half right, and that the half he didn’t know would probably try and do him in. And he had accepted that nothing, nothing at all, was ever as it seemed. And yet somehow every time he heard a name he recognized from the Upworld, he knew that whatever it turned out to be was going to be a complete and utter surprise, and about as far from his expectations as it was possible for it to be. And it caught him off guard every time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As usual, the Marquis de Carabas studied him as though trying to decide just </span>
  <em>
    <span>how </span>
  </em>
  <span>Richard was still alive if he was so inconceivably thick. It was an expression that Richard had gotten used to seeing; and by now, he had begun to recognize that it was largely an affectation. The Marquis, he had learned, did not waste the time of day on you without extracting the promise of a favour unless he had at least trace elements of fondness for you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And de Carabas spent a lot of his days bothering Richard, which meant perhaps not that he considered him a bosom companion, but that he did not consider him an irritation. Or at least, most of the time. Richard would have been exactly the sort of idiot the Marquis took him for if he didn’t admit that they had a remarkable knack for getting under one another’s skin, and also that he kind of enjoyed it. Right now, however, he could feel his brow knit in anticipation of whatever snide comment was about to come out of the Marquis’ mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The London Eye is not a </span>
  <em>
    <span>what, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Richard. They are a </span>
  <em>
    <span>who.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” The words poured from his mouth like an oil spill, as if to say ‘even </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>should have known that by now’. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “And I believe you will find they predate London Above’s triskaidekaphobic folly by some decades.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Triskaide-what now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fear of the number thirteen,” said the Marquis, coolly. “Come now, Richard, I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure </span>
  </em>
  <span>the Lady Door has warned you about the thirteenth by now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She… may have mentioned it a couple of times.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had, every month and for about a week before the date. Strenuously, and in small words. He had generally scoffed every time at the idea that one day of the month was somehow more dangerous than the rest in a place that could already kill you as soon as look at you. But she was insistent, and got cross at him every time he rolled his eyes, and so he obediently stayed indoors on the thirteenth of every month. (He had remembered how his office </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jessica’s both went from floor twelve to floor fourteen, and that had he ever been able to afford a meal for twelve at the Savoy they would have been accompanied by a sculpture of a cat. Superstition above, it seemed, was not paranoia below.) He wasn’t sure, were he honest, if they were both having an elaborate laugh at his expense but with London Below he supposed it was best to assume they were deadly serious. Literally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you need </span>
  <em>
    <span>me </span>
  </em>
  <span>to come with you to see the… London Eye, anyway?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I enjoy your company. Perhaps because I am bored.” Richard opened his mouth, and then thought better of it. “Or perhaps because you owe me a favour.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There had been an… incident, just outside the last Floating Market, between Richard and a certain Ratspeaker who has made promises of a throat-slitting nature. De Carabas’ presence alone had been enough for the Lord Ratspeaker to reconsider his stance on slicing Richard from ear to ear - for now - and the Marquis had declared a favour owed before leaving him alone to contemplate his regular proximity to an untimely, unpleasant death. Later, he would have the distinct feeling as though the Marquis could simply have </span>
  <em>
    <span>warned </span>
  </em>
  <span>him of the oncoming threat, and in fact had clearly timed his arrival for when it was most convenient to </span>
  <em>
    <span>him.</span>
  </em>
  <span> But Richard was alive, and he couldn’t find it in himself to be ungrateful about it. After all, the Marquis had saved his life several times </span>
  <em>
    <span>without </span>
  </em>
  <span>compensation in a way that, also, suggested he liked Richard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure you can decide for yourself which of the three it is, dear boy.” The Marquis grinned his panther grin, showing off rows of very white, somehow sharp teeth, and Richard decided there would be no getting out of this. “Regardless of my reasons, I require your company and the matter is of the utmost urgency. I suggest you grab your knife.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hunter’s… knife.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was his, he knew. Richard knew, deep down, that Hunter would never be using it again, and that he carried it in his belt because it was much easier to carry than a spear. His hand slid down, wrapping around the hilt. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>coming back, and she had betrayed them and so he shouldn’t have been disappointed about that and yet, he was. He had lost track of the number of times she had saved his life; he hadn’t been able to save </span>
  <em>
    <span>hers.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>De Carabas rolled his eyes and tapped his feet and looked at where he might have worn a watch, if he had one. Richard wondered, idly, what had happened to his pocket watch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The </span>
  <em>
    <span>utmost</span>
  </em>
  <span> urgency,” he reiterated, with a sigh. “Meaning we should have left ten minutes prior.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, alright…” Richard sighed right back, grabbing a handful of things from what passed for a dresser in the rooms he lived in. (A pair of soggy cardboard boxes, and a plank of wood that held them up.) Without paying attention he pocketed two cereal bars, a lightly used underground season ticket, one marker pen and some loose change. Breakfast, and something to barter with, just in case. “Lead on, Macduff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Richard made a point of departing from his own door first of all, he heard the Marquis sigh again, adjust the lapels of his coat, and saunter vaguely after him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Lay</span>
  </em>
  <span> on, Richard. It’s not 1898 anymore…”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>"In London The Biography, Peter Ackroyd talks of the city's superstitious thoroughfares which don't have a 13; Fleet Street, Oxford Street, Park Lane, Praed Street, St James's Street, Haymarket and Grosvenor Street all eschew the dreaded number. Some buildings themselves are superstitious: One Canada Square, for example, has no 13th floor; instead the numbers leapfrog from 12 to 14. Then there's the London Eye, which has 32 capsules numbered up to 33. Why's that? Yup, no number 13. If you're ever invited to dinner at the Savoy along with 12 other guests, you'll be joined by a 14th by the name of Kaspar. Nope, Kaspar isn't an uppity waiter, he's a cat. And not a real cat either — rather, an 88-year-old Art Deco sculpture." (<a href="https://londonist.com/2015/05/londons-fear-of-the-number-13">Source</a>)</p><p>"In 1898, a drunk was arrested in London misquoting the phrase. He was fined 7s., in default ten days imprisonment. Joseph Callaway, sixty four, was charged with being disorderly. The other night the prisoner stood in Villiers Street, Strand, and exclaimed in tragic tones, "Lead on Macduff, lead on! I'm the only real and genuine Sir Henry Irving. Lead on Macduff, lead on!" The prisoner had a stick in his hand, and waved it about so energetically that several people narrowly escaped being struck." (<a href="https://historyhouse.co.uk/articles/macbeth.html">Source</a>)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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